The Devil’s Trill

Eli woke to a terrible noise. Someone behind the wall was trying to play Tartini’s Devil’s Trill. Just great. Why wasn’t that little talentless brat tackling Paganini instead? Unbelievable.

He didn’t immediately remember where he was, but the rumble of a streetcar outside dragged him back to the grim reality of existence: he was in Odessa, in his mother’s apartment. His tour had gone to hell thanks to that idiotic global quarantine, and Italy was now off-limits—for God knows how long.

The violin on the other side of the wall kept screeching out the same opening phrase of the Trill, and listening to it felt like torture. Imagine that—another violinist had moved into Vano’s old apartment…

They’d first met as new tenants on that stairwell. Since third grade, they’d been in the same class, the same music school, the same orchestra… It had once felt like a friendship for life.

He felt ashamed remembering it. He had pushed most of it out of his mind, though he could never truly forget—because he couldn’t forget Natasha. And she had left him—for Vano. She had walked away from success, from international tours, from his growing fame… for Vano, who had been quietly asked to leave the orchestra—just as he was on the verge of becoming first violin.

“All my hopes, all my youthful dre-a-ms…”—his mind involuntarily started humming the clumsy words he had once made up to Tartini’s intro, just to match the mood—“So full of love and of gleams…"

“Never play the Trill,” his mother told him once, shortly before her death. “It’s for big boys! Not for kindergarten.”

“That’s what you think of me?” Eli smiled, though he felt a bit hurt. Maybe not a bit. “Mom, I already play it—and get great reviews!”

“You’re still jumping for that candy?” she replied in her typical Odessa accent. “Baby, you don’t play like Perelman yet—and it’s a shame to play it like anyone else.”

“Mom, there are plenty of great musicians who do. Daniel Rose—”

“Oh! Next you’ll be praising that Mimi with a neckline down to her knees… Musicians!”

“Mom!”

“Your Daniel turned a tragedy into bubblegum fluff.”

“The whole world is amazed—but Mama knows best!”

“You can’t play the Trill with a manicure, sweetie—you have to play it with your soul,” she added, her sarcasm softening. “They can’t cry. Their soul hasn’t grown yet. And yours hasn’t either. Maybe once you bury me, you’ll manage it.” She looked at him doubtfully. “Don’t play the Trill…”

“All my hopes, all my youthful dreams…” the violin behind the wall kept squeezing out the same line again and again, followed by another squeak and a sour note. Eli couldn’t take it anymore. He got dressed and stepped out into the stairwell. Marching up to the door, he knocked firmly. No response. He knocked again and waited. Still nothing.

He turned to go back—but just then, something clinked behind the door, and a child’s voice asked, “Who’s there?”

"You're holding the violin wrong," he said to the door. "You're holding it with your hand—you need to hold it with your head."

"With my head?" the girl sounded surprised. "That's awkward."

"At first. But it’s the only proper way."

"Why?"

"So your hand stays free. That way, you can move it across the full length of the fingerboard. Try it—rest the violin on your shoulder, hold it in place with your head, and let go of your hands. Once it’s stable, you can begin. Start with simple scales."

The door opened just a crack, and two huge black eyes looked up at him. The girl was about twelve, on crutches. And she looked just like Vano.

Eli’s breath caught. He hadn’t imagined they might still live in that apartment. Why had he assumed they’d moved away long ago?

“Are you Eli Cohen?” the girl asked, her eyes wide with delighted surprise.

“Yes… And you’re… Mariella?” he asked, recalling Vano’s daughter’s name.

“You can just call me Masha.”

“Didn’t you move away?” Eli asked, feeling uneasy.

“We did. But then Papa got sick…” Her voice trailed off.

“Oh… is he here?” Eli asked, even more uneasily, a sudden wave of realization crashing down—he might have to look him in the eye.

“No,” Mariela said softly. “He died.”

“My God… When?” Eli whispered. “I didn’t know…”

“You were in Brazil.”

“Last year?”

“Yes.”

They fell silent for a long time. At last, the girl said quietly:

“His birthday’s coming soon. I wanted to play Tartini. It was his favorite. He played it so beautifully. It’s a shame we sold the violin…”

“You sold it? God—why?! He had that—”

“Papa didn’t want to. He wanted me to play. But when he got really sick, Mama sold it behind his back… for surgery. And medicine. Only his childhood one is left.”

“I remember that one… practically plywood.”

“It’s okay. He learned on it,” Mariela said softly. “So can I.”

“Wait,” Eli said suddenly, remembering something. He hurried back to his apartment and returned a moment later with a case.

“Here. Take it. I bought it for my son—he didn’t want to play. Then I brought it here for my niece—but she wasn’t interested either. These days, all they care about is business.”

“Oh… it must be expensive…” Mariela said, alarmed.

“No,” Eli lied. “It’s just a student model. But a good one. Do you know how to tune?”

“Yes…”

He was still trembling inside when he returned to his apartment. He couldn’t focus on anything—just paced back and forth, flooded with memories: of childhood, of Vano—while the sound of the violin filtered softly through the wall. It was more bearable now. The girl clearly had an ear—and a capacity to learn.

Eventually, routine pulled him in—lunch, a book—and he didn’t notice how the time slipped by.

A soft knock on the door pulled him back to consciousness. Eli blinked and glanced at the clock—it was around eight. Two hours had vanished; he must have dozed off. For some reason, his first thought was of Mariela. He stood up quickly, walked to the door, opened it—and froze. It was Natasha.

A small explosion went off in Eli’s mind. He hadn’t expected to see her — especially that sharp, piercing look in her eyes. She was holding a violin case. Of course. She had come to return it. She opened her mouth to speak — but Eli drew in a deep breath and managed to say it first:

“I’m sorry.”

She froze, as if she’d walked into a wall, her mouth still open. So he rushed on, as if afraid that if he hesitated for even a second, he’d lose the courage to say it all:

“I’m sorry for everything. It was my fault, I know that. I’ve felt ashamed for years. I wanted to apologize to Vano, I really did, but… I kept putting it off. Tried to forget. Pushed it away. Lied to myself, ran from it. You were right to leave me for him. I was a coward, Natasha — a terrible coward. I didn’t stand up for Vano when I could have. It was all so unfair. He was a much better musician than I’ll ever be… But back then, I was angry. Hurt. At both of you.”

Natasha stood silent for a moment, then sighed. Her shoulders sagged, and the anger in her gaze faded.

“What does it matter now? It’s all over. He’s gone. It’s all in the distant past. And this…” — she held out the violin — “we can’t take it. It would only give her false hope. She’s disabled. Just recently, she’s started walking a little — with crutches. But she won’t recover. We need to be realistic. She has to learn to live with what is — not chase fairy tales.”

Natasha left. The violin stayed. And behind the wall settled silence.

Eli put the case on the couch and stepped out onto the balcony. The world had become a prison — you couldn’t go to the store, couldn’t take a walk, couldn’t drown your sorrow in a bar. And there was no escape from the crushing grief and pain.

He came back inside, picked up the violin nobody wanted, and stepped out onto the balcony once more.

“All my hopes, all my youthful dreams…” the violin began to sing the opening phrase of Trills.

The delicate, mysterious melody of Tartini’s little sonata flowed out into the wide courtyard between the buildings, reaching even the tram stop.

“So full of love and of gleams…"

Good intentions—the kind that pave the road to hell. Sweet illusions. The idyllic plans a young man longs to grasp in the future. A tender foolishness that will never come true. Shining promises that will never be fulfilled…

And then—an abrupt, shrill staccato bursts forth to open the second part: “Let it be so!”

A cascade of rapid, sharp orders, as if someone—spitting words and spittle—were demanding, demanding that the world become exactly as they wish! The urgency and desperation intensify; someone waves their arms, shouting, commanding harmony and love—but those never come by command. Only the efforts multiply. The thread only tangles further…

And then it all collapses. The attempts to change the world, to bend it, subdue it, reshape it to fit oneself’s ideal—shatter. The music breaks down into hysterical shrieks, teetering on the edge of cacophony. Everything is revealed to be futile. Meaningless…

As though an entire human life were compressed into these fourteen minutes—from the luminous beginning through the falls, the climbs, the battles—until the final tragic end.

With a heavy heart, Eli approached the final notes.

He used to whisper in his mind, almost out of habit:

“God… why’s this my fate? Why, why—why me?!”

But suddenly he realized—it was wrong. False.

And instead, as he reached the closing bars, something clear welled up from his soul:

“Forgive. For all. Forgive!”

As if, broken, you fall to your knees before the Creator, with no strength left, no hope—only one final, wrenching cry sent up to the heavens:

Forgive!

And it turns into a sob:

For all!

Forgive!

The music dissolved into the night, and Eli suddenly felt the salty taste in his mouth and the uneven rhythm of his breath. A light breeze cooled his wet cheeks, and the sounds of the street returned to his awareness — the rumble of the tram, the distant city hum.

And then — applause.

Not much, just a scattering of claps. But on the evening street, at the tram stop, and out on the balconies, people had been listening.

“You play like Papa,” said Mariela from the neighboring balcony.

Natasha stood beside her, also crying, her eyes fixed on the night sky.

“Your father played better,” Eli replied.

He paused, then added to Natasha,

“She can grow up just disabled—or she can grow up to be someone with hope and a future. Perelman has been playing from a wheelchair for years now.”

“We can’t afford a teacher,” Natasha said quietly, though Eli could feel her resistance crumbling.

“I’ll teach her. For free. As long as I’m here. After that… we’ll figure it out.”

“I don’t know…”

“Yes, you do.”

There was a long silence, and then Mariela whispered:

“Could you… play one more?”

Eli raised the violin—and began to play.

It was the best concert of his life.